Chapter One
The young man made his way along The Strand, toward the spot that had been selected for the rendezvous. Dressed in plain brown clothes, no one who saw him would ever think he belonged to the upper class.
Just as well. He’d long since chosen to put that life behind him so he could embrace the freedom enjoyed by those who weren’t slaves to duty and social demands.
No. It was best to be rid of all that.
Even if walking away from the privileged world he’d been born into had its own problems. Money, for starters. He’d only had enough to support himself for six months when he’d left his childhood home for the very last time.
Once it ran out, he’d been forced to seek employment.
First at a factory, later at the docks, and finally, with the man he’d met at The Laughing Rogue. That was six years ago now, and although he and Martin Pillkin had since parted ways, Pillkin had helped him secure a good income without much effort.
A method the young man had since repeated with other clients.
So much so, his name had become well-known among the subset of people who sought his services.
He cast a glance across the Thames and savored the pre-dawn glow spreading over the London rooftops. This was his favorite time of day, after most of the revelers had gone to bed and before the early risers began milling about. A time he liked to call “the in between”.
A whooshing sound accompanied the bird that swooped past him, across to a fence where it chose to perch. The young man acknowledged it briefly before turning into the nearest alley.
Slowing his pace, he approached the silhouetted figure who awaited his arrival.
“You’re early,” his lordship remarked.
“So are you,” said the man.
A snort became a soft chuckle. His lordship advanced a couple of steps but kept his distance. “I need to end things between us. Permanently.”
It wasn’t the first time the young man had heard such a declaration.
He knew he should have expected it, yet for some inexplicable reason, he hadn’t this time.
When he and his lordship last met, he’d gotten the impression that their acquaintance would continue indefinitely — that he would be financially secure for a long time yet.
“You know I just rented that Townhouse.” A huge step up from the rooms he’d occupied while he’d been saving. “I can’t afford to lose you right now.”
“And I can’t afford to continue these meetings.
” Another step brought his lordship close enough for the young man to make out his shadowy features.
Younger than his own and etched by the grim reality of being forced to do what his family dictated.
“Not to worry. We both know your skills will be sought by others.”
True, but…
“You are the one who demanded exclusivity. I dropped the rest of my clients because it was what you wanted.”
“In exchange for a huge sum of money that you were more than happy to take.”
Yes, but he’d used most of that on several months’ worth of rent security. He depended on the next check he’d receive from his lordship as spending money. Now he was practically broke, with a house in need of upkeep.
“I’ll do you another favor for half the usual amount,” he said, hating the desperation he heard in his own voice.
“No. There will be no more of that now.”
“Why? What’s changed?”
“Haven’t you read the papers?” Sadness slipped through his lordship’s arrogant tone. “I’m to be married.”
Of course. He intended to clean up what he perceived as a mess so he could enter into the union with a clear conscience. Even though he’d be living a lie.
“You cannot possibly want that.”
“Of course I don’t, but what I want hardly matters.”
“It matters to me.” The young man closed the distance, his palm gently rising to cradle his lordship’s cheek. “I care for you, Byron.”
Byron shoved him away. “Don’t touch me.”
“But I—”
“All you ever cared about was the money. Let’s not start pretending that it was ever about anything more than that.”
“I’ll agree it may have started that way, but after all the intimate moments we’ve—”
“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” Byron’s posture was rigid, his voice filled with contempt. “You are nothing to me but a big mistake.”
The words cut deeper than the young man would ever admit. “You can’t change who you are.”
“Of course I can. The only thing stopping me is you.” Byron raised his arm, revealing the object he held in his hand.
The young man backed away. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, but you’re the only one who knows my true nature.”
There was no chance for the young man to form a reply, or to register how close to death he was, before the lead ball punctured his heart.
* * *
Chief Constable Peter Kendrick crouched beside the young man’s body. A distressed refuse worker had stopped by Bow Street about an hour before to share what he’d stumbled upon in an alley just off The Strand: the corpse of a man who probably hadn’t died of natural causes.
Peter concurred. The chest wound clearly suggested the man had been shot. Murdered and abandoned, but by whom?
A more pressing question perhaps, was, who was he?
“I’ve walked every nearby street,” Lewis said, the Runner’s shoes appearing in Peter’s peripheral vision. “There’s no nearby gaming hells or brothels, no inns or other establishments where we can ask if this man was spotted by patrons.”
Peter frowned while surveying the clothes the man wore. Simple wool trousers. A jacket to match. Nothing pricy. Working class, at first glance, yet his face and his hair, not to mention his nails…
“How old do you reckon he was?” Peter asked.
“Less than thirty, I’d say. Maybe seven and twenty?”
“And what do you make of this?” Peter lifted the young man’s hand, then glanced up at Lewis.
“Very neat, no calluses, cuts, or ink-stains. I suppose that might narrow his profession down to a footman or some other type of service member who’s used to lighter work.”
“He’s also very clean shaven, his hair perfectly trimmed.” Peter studied the way the young man had tied his cravat and pointed it out to Lewis. “Not only did he take good care of himself, he also favored a complicated knot that’s rarely used outside the peerage.”
“Perhaps a valet then?” Lewis suggested. “On his day off?”
“Maybe,” Peter agreed. But why had he come here of all places? “This isn’t the sort of location one ends up in by accident.”
“You’re thinking he deliberately came to meet someone in this alley and the meeting went sideways?” When Peter responded with a slow nod, Lewis asked, “Is there nothing in any of his pockets that might provide us a clue to his identity?”
“Not in his jacket or trouser pockets.” Peter had already checked and discovered only a key. If there had been any money, then it was gone, most likely stolen by the killer.
Lewis crossed to the opposite side of the body and dropped to a crouch. “What about his waistcoat?”
“I’m just now getting to that.” Peter unbuttoned the jacket, opened it wide, and spotted an inside jacket pocket. “Check that for me, will you?”
Lewis did as Peter asked, then shook his head. Nothing.
Peter slipped a finger into the right waistcoat pocket and was once again disappointed. But the chain looping from one of the waistcoat buttonholes and into the left side pocket suggested he would at least find a watch.
He carefully retrieved the object and held it in his palm while Lewis detached the T-bar from the buttonhole. Once loose, Peter inspected the watch more closely.
“Gold,” he murmured. “Exquisitely crafted with a mother-of-pearl dial.”
“Maybe he pilfered it?” Lewis suggested.
Peter turned the watch over in his hand and read the engraving.
His heart produced an uncomfortable thump. “Either that, or this is Ryan Cooper. The Duke of Wrengate’s brother.”